On The Right Side
by wbva
Summary: While Draco accepts Dumbledore's offer to have him hidden away, Harry shows a dark side, previously unknown to even himself. As a result, they are both stuck at 12 Grimmauld Place.
1. Prologue

_'Come to the right side, Draco. We can hide you more completely than you can ever imagine.'_

The same moment Professor Dumbledore and Draco vanished into thin air, Harry felt his stiff body loosen up. Immediately, his Invisibility Cloak still on, he headed for the spiraled stairs. The chaos he walked into was unbelievable. Curses flew into every direction. Every now and then, warnings and screams of agony could be heard. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Luna battling a female Death Eater. The curses cast at her all seemed to miss by an inch. Harry's eyes didn't linger upon her for too long. They had noticed a familiar figure, talking to one of the Death Eaters. It was Snape. Harry had barely had his eyes on his Potions professor for three seconds, when the man Snape was talking to nodded, then shouted something to the others.

All of a sudden, the fighting seemed to halt. Some Death Eaters threw a last curse, before following Snape, who had ordered to leave the building at once. Most closely following was Bellatrix Lestrange. At her sight, Harry could feel a fire of fury burning in his gut, remembering the events that had occurred at the Ministry, only a year ago.

He knew it. He'd always known it, Harry thought to himself. Snape belonged to the Dark Lord and always had. Regardless of what Dumbledore had told him, Harry had never believed Snape to be any better than the scum that had killed his godfather. The rage that burned inside him was indescribable now. Instinctively he followed them. He'd get that bastard, he had to.

He ran and ran and ran. The cloak was now a burden and Harry no longer cared if they could see him. As he ran down the stairs of the Entrance Hall, he took off the cloak, stuffed it in the nearest armor and started running again.

The cold wind met Harry's face, making his eyes teary and his throat dry as dust. The grounds were wet and muddy, and keeping up with the lot started to take more and more effort. Still, he was rapidly putting some distance between him and the castle. He knew that he had to act soon, that once they were outside the grounds of Hogwarts, they'd be able to Disapparate. He shouted.

Then, everything happened at once. Time seemed to speed up. Things happened too fast for Harry to register them properly. There was yelling. He was yelling. Curses were thrown, but they all rebounded.

_'Fight back, you coward!' _

More yelling. More curses.

_'Avada kedavra!_'

A body collapsed. Shrieking and shouting could be heard. Then, a Stunning Curse hit Harry flat in the chest, and everything went black.


	2. Chapter One

The first thing Harry became aware of was the heavy, throbbing pain in his head. It took a while before the pain had subdued enough to leave room for other thoughts. He wasn't entirely sure where he was, but it was warm and comfortable. He opened his eyes for a split second, but the light caused another wave of pain.

Vaguely, Harry noticed that other people were in the room, and that they, in turn, had noticed him. Several pair of feet seemed to make their way over to Harry, and people spoke in hushed voices. He couldn't make out who were at his bedside. Again, he tried to open his eyes. It still hurt; he blinked a few times. Slowly, painfully, the room came into focus. Beside his bed were sitting Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, and of course his best friends and Ginny. He was in the Hospital Wing, he realized, as he saw Madam Pomfrey and the now familiar furniture.

'What happened?' Harry asked, not sure if asking so was a good idea. He thought deep, and could remember the cold night air and running after people. And anger, he could remember anger – so much anger.

'I – well,' McGonagall started, worry visible on her face. 'We are not entirely sure. Hagrid found you, you were lying, unmoving, on the ground some two hundred yards from the gate. You were Stunned. We think that you were – '

She couldn't finish her sentence. 'I was chasing Snape, and the Death Eaters,' Harry filled in, remembering.

'Ah, yes. That's what we thought. Do you remember anything else? Do you know who Stunned you?' Harry shook his head. 'Well, then. It seems that it was a pretty heated fight. The Stunning curse wasn't the only curse shot at you, you see.' A heavy silence fell. McGonagall looked as if she'd rather not elaborate. Still, Harry wanted to know.

'They tried to kill you, Mr. Potter. You're lucky to be alive. We think someone tried to kill you, but missed, hitting Professor Snape instead.'

Harry's heart stopped. It all came back to him. 'Luckily, you've got nothing too serious,' he heard Madam Pomfrey say, but he didn't register it fully. The curse hadn't missed him; he had cast it. He had killed Snape. Killed. _Fuck_. 'Just a concussion from your fall and few nasty bruises, you'll be fine within days.' What was he supposed to do now? He had to tell Dumbledore. Surely, he would understand. Snape was a traitor, after all. Dumbledore had trusted him, and instead he had been plotting with Voldemort to kill him. He knew Draco was to kill Dumbledore, encouraged him. Helped him, even. Surely, the bastard deserved to be dead. But at Harry's hands? What had he done? And how… how could he ever tell Dumbledore that his double spy had been… well, not _his_ double spy. Or did he already know?

Harry swallowed. 'Professor, where's Dumbledore? I need to speak to him. It's important.'

'Professor Dumbledore?' She asked. Her voice was shaking a bit, and she looked as though she had been expecting and dreading that question. 'I'm afraid you can't speak to him. He's no longer among us.' Shock went through Harry's body. Professor Dumbledore dead? It couldn't be. Sure, he had been in a bad state after his adventure with Harry. But dead? 'I'm sorry, Harry. He died this evening, at the Order's headquarters. He was poisoned, as you know.'

For a while, he just lay in bed, his mind completely empty and numb after the shock had begun to fade. But after a while, reality floated back into his mind, filling the emptiness. He knew he had to do – say – something.

'Professor, can I speak to you? In private?'

Professor McGonagall agreed and sent everyone away, including Madam Pomfrey, who was protesting that she hadn't finished yet. His friends hadn't said anything yet, but the look on their faces told Harry they were not happy to be excluded from the conversation.

McGonagall ensured the leaving party closed the door behind them, then returned to Harry's bed. 'What do you wish to tell me, Mr. Potter?' she asked, her voice sounding concerned.

'Snape. He was a Death Eater. He betrayed Dumbledore, Professor,' Harry said in one breath. He'd expected McGonagall to be shocked. Instead, she gravely nodded. She knew. She knew that all that time the Order had put their trust in the wrong person. Harry was relieved. She'd understand. He was sure of it. Still, how does one confess a murder?

Harry swallowed. 'Professor? I… The Killing Curse didn't miss me.' He could see his professor raise an eyebrow – surely, he lay there alive and well? 'It wasn't aimed at me, you see. I remember it now. It was aimed at Snape. I…' Harry fell silent. He couldn't. But he had to. 'It was me, who cast it.'

The witch in front of him gasped and put her hand to her mouth in shock. 'Harry…' Her eyes looked from him, to his wand on his bedside table, back to him. 'No… surely, you cannot have done that. My dear boy, it must be the concussion. Maybe, Madam Pomfrey was right. We should've let her go about.'

'No,' Harry croaked. It would have been a shout, but his body refused anymore extortion, it seemed. 'You don't understand. It was me. I didn't mean to, I wasn't thinking. I was angry, Professor. He was there, Snape, giving orders to Death Eaters, socializing with Bellatrix Lestrange. I realized he had betrayed Dumbledore. It made me so angry. I wanted to chase him, to stop him. I didn't mean to kill him, but I did, Professor. I did!'

McGonagall looked at Harry. She seemed to have lost all speech. Harry tried to read her face, but it he wasn't sure about what he found written on it. He wasn't sure whether it was concern, or grief, or maybe contempt and shock.

'I'm sorry, Professor. I never meant to…' He didn't finish his sentence; he had said 'I have killed' far too often already that evening.

'Alright, my boy, you need some more sleep. I'll see you this afternoon.'

Harry wasn't entirely sure whether she was convinced of his guilt.

Harry's sleep had been long and dreamless, and for a short while, it felt like he had woken up to the unspectacular aftermath of any given school day. But, of course, it didn't last. Rapidly, the thought of Dumbledore's passing came back to him and filled him with a sadness that didn't leave room for thoughts about Snape or murder.

The clock told Harry that it was already three o'clock and his stomach told him that he had slept through both breakfast and lunch. Thankfully, there was a plate of food on the bedside table.

McGonagall stopped by, as she had said. Concern was still written on her face, mixed with empathy. Her words, on the other hand, were straightforward and formal. The school year was over for Harry. Under the circumstances, Hogwarts was not the best place for Harry to stay. Instead, he would remain at the Order's headquarter. Departure would be the same afternoon. He needn't worry about his luggage, everything would be taken care of.

Shortly after McGonagall had left, Ron and Hermione entered the Hospital Wing. Apparently, with no Headmaster and no Potions professor, classes had been cancelled. Both flung their arms around Harry as greeting. Hermione didn't let go for a long time.

Almost immediately, they started shooting questions. They had been left in the dark by McGonagall and the rest of the order, although rumors had already started spreading around the school. Where had Dumbledore taken Harry? How had he died? How had Harry become involved in the battle? Had his battle with Snape come back to him?

Harry felt he had to tell his friends the whole truth. They had to know. When the words had left his mouth, Hermione gasped. Ron didn't seem to react at all, at first. He just blinked a few times with his eyes, before saying it served Snape well, the bastard. He had probably intended to make Harry feel better about the matter – Harry was sure that it was visible how bad he felt about killing someone – but it didn't. Hermione's gasp felt more appropriate. Of course she was shocked. Good people don't kill. And she had thought he was a good person.

There was silence for a bit, before he went on to tell them that McGonagall had arranged his departure. Then he remembered the Invisibility Cloak.

'Ron, when I was chasing Snape, I had to hide the Cloak. It's in one of the armors in the Entrance Hall. I'm not supposed to leave the Hospital Wing, I think,' Harry said. It was true that he was indeed not, but that had never stopped him before. The idea, however, of having to walk through the gossiping crowds of Hogwarts, seemed more terrifying now than it had ever done before. 'Do you think that you can get it for me?'

Ron nodded and Harry muttered a thanking before Ron turned around to leave the Hospital Wing. Harry hadn't necessarily wanted Ron to go to retrieve it right that minute, but he didn't mind. He hated to admit it, but the presence of his friends didn't bring him any solace whatsoever. He would much prefer being alone at the moment.

Hermione sat at his bedside without saying anything, for a while. Harry was grateful for the silence. Then, Hermione seemed to remember something.

'Ginny was planning to stop by tomorrow morning. She's at the Burrow, now. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley took Bill home. He was in the Hospital Wing last night, while you were unconscious. His injuries aren't too serious, I think. But Greyback got at him, so we worry he might be… well, a werewolf. Anyway,' Hermione was rambling. Harry had stopped listening, his thoughts lingering on Ginny. The usual wave of affection didn't come. Instead, it was a pressing feeling of heaviness… 'But I think McGonagall wanted the Hospital Wing all for you,'

'Obviously, you won't be here tomorrow morning. Owling her will do no good now, I'm afraid. By the time Hedwig reaches Ginny, you'll be at Grimmauld Place. However, I think I can ask Professor McGonagall if I can use her office to use the Floo Network. I'm sure Ginny would want to come over right now. Shall I go to McGonagall, Harry?'

'That won't be necessary,' Harry said. It had been thoughtful of Hermione to offer, but Harry had no desire to see Ginny – to see anyone, really. Hermione looked surprised, as well as a little bit disappointed.

'Just,' Harry began. 'Please, tell Ginny I am really sorry. Tell her I will write her soon. She's better off at home, right now.'

His body still sore, Harry crawled out of the fireplace in the drawing room. Its furniture was no longer a menace after the efforts made last summer, but the ambiance was still highly unpleasant. Professor McGonagall followed quickly, getting out of the fireplace a lot more elegantly.

'I'll just bring your things upstairs. Same room as last summer, Harry. You can go to the kitchen now, there will be members of the Order waiting for you. _Locomotor trunk_.'

Professor McGonagall turned around and left the room. Harry followed suit. When he passed the stairways, he could hear McGonagall curtly greet someone. Harry looked up to see a familiar figure, and froze. It was only a split-second before Draco Malfoy noticed Harry too. As their eyes locked, both stood rigid. Then, without saying a word, Harry continued his way to the kitchen.

In front of the closed door, Harry stopped. He had to take a few moments to gather enough nerve to face an uncertain amount of Order members in the light of recent events. Harry wondered if they already knew what he had done. Even if they did, he figured, he would probably have to tell them again anyway. The longer he stood, the more nervous he became. He couldn't open the door. What if Lupin would be there? What would he think of this? How disappointed he would be to find that Harry had so little self-constraint and so much hate inside him. No normal person kills because they are angry. Eventually, the door was opened for him.

'Don't be standing there like a fool, lad, come in.'

It was Mad-Eye Moody. His magical eye must have detected Harry ages ago, and his patience run out by now. Harry was half dragged into the kitchen. There were three other persons in the room. Kingsley Shacklebolt was leaning against the kitchen counter; he greeted Harry with a warm smile. On the kitchen table were sitting Remus Lupin and a woman that Harry thought was Narcissa Malfoy. Moody nodded and she silently got up and left the room.

'What are they doing here?' Harry asked as soon as Narcissa had closed the door behind her.

'Dumbledore took them here, Harry. Draco accepted his offer for protection. This is the safest place for them to be right now. Dumbledore told us you knew,' Lupin explained.

'Who says they're not here to spy on the Order?' Harry asked, incredulously. He couldn't believe the Order had taken Death Eaters in. Or, at least, that they hadn't thrown him out after they had found out about Snape.

'Dumbledore trusts they won't, Harry, and,' Lupin said, but he couldn't finish his sentence.

Harry felt a surge of anger going through his body upon hearing the explanation. 'So what? Dumbledore trusted Snape. That didn't do him much good, either.'

'And,' Lupin repeated, 'we are keeping a close tab on them. You needn't worry.'

Lupin looked Harry in the eye. Harry could see that Lupin had been up for far too long; his expression was worn and his eyes were pleading for no further resistance. 'Please, Harry. Dumbledore wanted this. We feel we should honor his wish, don't you?'

Harry nodded slowly. Something else occurred to him.

'Dumbledore. Is he… is he here? His body?'

Lupin nodded. 'Yes. Yes, he is here. However, it is important now that we speak to you about last night, Harry. You can visit Dumbledore tomorrow, when you are well-rested and better prepared. Please, sit down.'

Harry had wanted to go to see Dumbledore the minute Moody and Shacklebolt had released him from their grip, their draining interrogation finally over. It was well after midnight, Harry thought, and he had been interrogated for what felt like ages. Lupin, however, urged him to go to bed and decided he should escort Harry to his room. The minute they started ascending the stairs, Harry felt fatigue hit him. His head was throbbing from the concussion and his hip and back were sore from his fall on the cold ground.

When Harry opened the door, he saw the two beds that Ron and he had occupied a little less than a year ago, as well as the empty portrait of Nigellus Phineas Black. He also noticed that the trunk resting on Ron's bed was not his. His, in fact, stood beside his bed. After studying the trunk briefly, he concluded it belonged to Malfoy. Harry let out a groan. As he considered his options, Harry couldn't help but wonder whether Professor McGonagall had failed notice that there was already a trunk in this bedroom, or had failed to notice there were more bedrooms available in the house.

Harry absolutely did not want to share his room with Malfoy. However, his trunk was heavy and he was tired and not allowed to use magic. Finally, he decided that he would probably fall asleep within seconds, anyway. He wouldn't notice Malfoy's imminent presence until the morning. Then, Mafloy could have another bedroom assigned and everything would be fine.

He unpacked his pajamas from his trunk, not really feeling like bothering to do so, but also not feeling like sleeping in his boxers in Malfoy's presence. Harry did not make the effort to put the rest of his stuff back in his trunk, but immediately crawled underneath the sheets. It seemed that he had fallen asleep before he had even closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter Two

Harry looked at the clock on his bedside table. It was only seven in the morning, but he was wide awake. He sat up and put his legs to the floor. In front of him, on the other side of the room, Harry could see a body, lying perfectly still. For a moment Harry contemplated whether he should wake the git and see him out of his bedroom, but he decided against it. Seven o'clock was a too early hour to seek out a confrontation. That didn't mean that Harry was planning to play nice with Draco, and so he didn't bother to be silent or leave the lights off when he put on his clothes.

Although he didn't think it very likely that there were other people residing in the house beside the Malfoys and him, Harry still made a point of going down the stairs silently. While descending, he was sure he could feel the house-elves' beady eyes staring at him. It unsettled him badly enough to miss the last step. He stumbled and fell, making enough noise to wake a resident he had completely forgotten about. The curtains in front of him flew open, and Mrs. Black presented herself in full glory.

_'Shame brought upon the noble house of my fathers! Blood traitors, filth. Such dishonor!' _

When she saw who had been the person to disrupt her so early in the morning, she stopped her usual repertoire with a gasp.

_'MURDERER!_' she bellowed. _'You vermin; filthy Slytherin murderer! Oh, the noble house of Slytherin... BEREFT BY YOU.'_

Harry couldn't get himself to move, let alone to do something about the scene playing out in front of him. He just stood there and let the shrilling shrieks wash over him, followed by waves of pain in his still sensitive brain. After a short while, Tonks came storming out of the kitchen. As soon as Mrs. Black caught sight of her, she began wailing about disgrace brought upon the Black family. Tonks frantically started pulling at the curtains, returning the insults with equal fury and a few added swears.

At last, the house returned to its usual quiet.

'Oh, Harry, good to see you! I was hoping I'd run into you one of these days. Quick, come to the kitchen,' Tonks babbled, grabbing Harry by his arm and pulling him along with her. He was dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs. Tonks sat down next to him.

'I didn't think you would be up this early. When I heard my dear great aunt, I was quite surprised. Usually, only Narcissa is up at this hour, and she is much too… elegant to make noise. Still, thought she must have knocked something over, so I didn't do anything. Narcissa and her boy seem to know how to handle the monstrous woman. Only when I heard her screaming about – ' She didn't seem to dare finish her sentence.

Harry had been caught by surprise by Tonks' sudden appearance. He had expected her to be home, but the tired look on her face told Harry that she must have been out all night, busy for the Order. It was a pleasant surprise, she had seemed happy to see him and the feeling was mutual. However, the implicit mention of Snape made him feel uncomfortable.

'Really, though, it's quite a relief that for once I'm not the person making her come out from behind her curtains.' Tonks grinned.

'So ehm,' Harry began. 'What brings you out here at this ghastly hour?'

'I had guard duty, you see. When I was done, I thought I'd bring some food to you all here. Figured Moody might be so busy with keeping you all from being killed, he might accidentally starve you,' she said, pointing to a pile of food on the kitchen counter.

'Do you mind?' Harry asked as he stood up. Upon seeing the food, he had realized he could do with some breakfast. Tonks shook her head. Harry saw a kettle and poured some water in it to make tea, before investigating the pile. After considering his options, he decided to go for some toast and a juicy looking orange.

Harry put down a cup of tea in front of Tonks and set himself down to eat.

'I heard Moody had a go at you, last night. Hope he hasn't been too hard on you. He can get horribly carried away sometimes. Doesn't have much consideration for other people, when that happens,' Tonks said. Harry nodded, thinking that she must have experienced it many and many times, having had him as her supervisor.

'Remus was there,' Harry said, 'he tried not to make it last too long. But well, it was still well after midnight. It was, well, tiring, I guess. I'd rather not think about it, in fact.'

The rest of the conversation was light and meaningless, and Tonks' yawns started to follow each other more rapidly. Harry thanked her for doing groceries and bid her goodnight. When he had finished his orange, he threw his plate in the sink – someone who could magically do the dishes should do them, Harry thought. Then, he made his way back upstairs, careful not to make any noise this time; he didn't think he could stand another episode this morning.

When he opened the door to his room, he was hoping with all his might that Malfoy was still asleep, or gone. The latter seemed to be the case, so Harry walked to his trunk at ease. He was rummaging through his stuff to find parchment and a few schoolbooks, when he heard the door open. In it stood his undesired roommate. His gaze was fixed upon Harry, who got up to face him and tell him he should pack his stuff. Draco took a few strides towards him, glaring in a strange way. Before Harry could even open his mouth to say something, he felt a fist crash into his face. Harry stumbled back, his ankles hitting the trunk, almost falling over onto his bed. At the last moment, he regained his balance. Harry was so dumbstruck that it didn't even occur to him to launch himself at Draco. Instead, he just stared at the boy in front of him.

'I heard Mrs. Black, this morning.' Draco was positively fuming, his stare holding like a dog with rabies. 'YOU KILLED HIM! You, you, ah fuck,' Draco said, now holding onto the fist with which he had punched in pain.

Only now, Harry noticed a warm sensation on his face. Slowly, he brought his hand of to his face, where he found blood was gushing out of his nose. He quickly ran his finger along his cheekbone, which had also been hit, and thought he could feel a bruise starting to form. He pinched his nose closed. When he realized just how heavily it was bleeding, he held his other hand underneath it to serve as a cup, so as not to bleed all over the carpet. Still, he was watching Malfoy. He too looked confused and unsure what to do next. He seemed to be taking in the damage he had inflicted. Harry had expected a satisfied smirk, but it didn't come. Instead he could hear Draco whisper: 'How could you?', before he turned around to leave the room.

Harry waited a short while before following Draco's example. He went to the bathroom, where he stood bent over the sink, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

When Harry had gone upstairs, he had intended to get some parchment and ink so he could go downstairs into a vacated room, maybe the drawing room, and work on ideas what the Horcruxes might be and where they might be found. The encounter with Draco, however, had chased all thoughts of Horcruxes out of his mind.

Thinking about what had happened, it struck Harry how affected Malfoy had seemed by Snape's death. After a little while, he figured it was only natural. After all, Snape had been his guide through his entire school career, much like Dumbledore had been to Harry. He thought about the loathing he had felt for Malfoy while he was watching him point his wand at Dumbledore, threatening to kill him. It had sickened Harry to see how desperate Malfoy was, that he had even been capable of attempting such an action.

It was that exact moment when it hit Harry, the amplitude of what he had done. He had killed a man. He had done what Draco could not. Not even because he was forced, not because his parents were threatened. He had just… killed. Out of anger and hate. Simply because he couldn't bear to see the person alive. The realization of what kind of monster he was lurched at his insides so violently that he had to throw up. He heaved and he heaved again. When he thought he was done throwing up, he saw the blood from his nose mixed with his own vomit, and he had to throw up again. Without looking, he opened the tap. He let it run for a while, then let the water drain away. He repeated the action a couple of times and the sink slowly cleaned itself.

The bleeding of his nose that had almost stopped before, had begun again, and Harry was left with a dirty sour taste in his mouth. He went to get his toothbrush from his trunk. Malfoy was reading a book on his bed, his right hand lying limp next to him. Silently, without making eye contact, Harry got what he needed and disappeared again.

Draco, Harry realized, had been the first one to show anger for what Harry had done – that is, if you don't count Mrs. Black, and Harry thought senile portraits shouldn't be. In fact, he had even been the first one to even condemn his actions. So far, all Harry had got were reactions of concern met with disbelief and sometimes a tinge of disappointment, but that was it. Being met with the hatred Harry realized he deserved was almost refreshing. The interrogation with Moody and Lupin had been horrible. Harry had had to tell every single detail he could remember – which was mostly anger, and a couple of curses he had tried before taking more drastic measures – and they had just listened. Moody had been completely stoic, showing neither approval nor disapproval. Lupin had even shown sympathy, telling him on his way upstairs that Harry couldn't blamed. But Draco knew the truth, as did Harry. It had been a repulsive action, driven solely by hate.

Harry couldn't help but wonder what Dumbledore would have thought of him, knowing he had killed someone. Harry thought he had known Dumbledore well enough to know that, regardless of the fact who and why Harry had killed, he would not have approved. He remembered the conversation he had had with his headmaster at the end of his second year. Dumbledore had known that Harry had abilities to devastate, but he never would have suspected Harry to use them. Imagining the disappointment that would have shown in Dumbledore's eyes, Harry felt worse than he had since that fatal night. At the thought of Dumbledore, Harry's feet instinctively started to carry Harry towards the room in which he knew Dumbledore lay in state. When he reached the door, he didn't dare enter, scared of what he would find – half hoping the room would be empty, that Dumbledore had walked out of the room early in the morning after a night of deep sleep.

When Harry did slowly open the door, he could see a pair of feet. He had to force himself to open the door entirely and step into the room. Closing the door behind him, it felt as if Harry's existence reached no further than the four walls between which he was held, and that the rest of the world had simply faded away into nothingness. Observing his mentor's body, Harry found that he felt surprisingly little. He wasn't sure what he had expected of this visit. Maybe, he thought he would have broken down in sobs, wishing he'd been dragged along into the great unknown. Maybe, he had expected great shock at a most gruesome sight. Neither came even remotely close. In fact, his mind was in a calm yet analytic state. Harry noticed how Dumbledore was wearing the same dress robes he had worn when the two of them set out to collect the locket. The locket which, he realized in that moment, he didn't have anymore. It didn't seem to matter. His eyes rested for a while on the hand that had looked like it had started to deteriorate long before Dumbledore had been dead. Harry still didn't know what had caused it. Vaguely, he wondered if a functioning hand might have saved Dumbledore, but he doubted it. Another thing that sprang to Harry's attention was the room's smell. He would have expected a corpse to smell badly. The room however, smelled quite pleasantly, a fresh smell that Harry thought had a hint of orange to it. For half an hour, Harry stayed in the room, leaving his eyes to wander Dumbledore's body. As Harry was contemplating all the moments he had shared with Dumbledore, tidal waves of self-hate were alternated by tsunamis of hate for Snape, washing over him and leaving him to feel cold and stiff. Finally, he couldn't bear it any longer, and left the room.

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was cool and dim. The small windows in the wall opposite of the door to the hallway were so dirty that they allowed only a small amount of light to enter the room. Even so, Harry could tell that the weather had to be a lot better than it had been the last time Harry had been outside. He held a glass underneath the tap and let it fill. Slowly, he made his way towards the door that he assumed would lead him to the garden. When he stepped outside, he felt the most wonderful combination of the warmth of the sun and the coolness of a fresh breeze caressing his skin. The sky was stark blue. He took a look around the garden. He was standing on the patio, on which a round cast iron table stood, with four cast iron chairs around it and several flower pots on the sides of the patio. It was a few meters deep. A stairway led down to the rest of the garden. It was narrow, like Harry would have expected from a garden the heart of London, but incredibly deep. Harry couldn't believe that any garden in the center of a metropolitan city could be so large; he figured it was magically enlarged. The garden was enclosed by a high dry stone wall, maybe two meters tall. Dark green ivy was growing on most of the wall. Harry thought it looked beautiful. The garden looked neglected. A cobble path leading to the back of the garden had become almost invisible under the moss and the weeds. Trees and bushes were scattered around the place, not allowing Harry to look all the way into the back of the garden, leaving him wondering just how deep the garden was. The only part of the garden that looked like attention had been paid to it in recent times was a small patch of soil that Harry recognized as a kitchen-garden, although it did not have vegetables in it like carrots or tomatoes. Some of the plants Harry could identify because he had learned about them in Herbology classes. Others were a complete mystery to him.

Harry had set himself down in one of the chairs on the patio and was enjoying the feeling of sunshine on his skin, eyes closed, when he heard movements from further back in the garden. He opened his eyes, and saw a figure making their way towards the house. As they came closer, he recognized them as Narcissa Malfoy. She did not look as well-composed or neat as usual. Instead, she had several streaks of mud on her face, and her otherwise so carefully groomed hair was up in a messy bun. When she noticed Harry observing her, she cast a smile. As she came closer, however, she screwed her face up in a frown a little, before returning to a neutral facial expression.

'Why, Mr. Potter. Good morning,' she said politely. 'Would you mind if I joined you? I'll just get something to drink, then I will be right back, if you consent.'

Harry nodded. Shortly after, Mrs. Malfoy returned, carrying a glass of iced tea with her. When she saw Harry's empty glass she apologized – how silly, she thought he had still had something to drink. Harry waved it away and invited her to sit.

'Had a rough morning, Mr. Potter?' the woman asked, gesturing at his bruised and swollen face. Harry felt unsure how to answer that question. Really, he didn't feel the need to tell Mrs. Malfoy that her son had felt the need to punch him.

'You could say that,' Harry murmered.

'Would you like me to patch you up? You really do look ghastly, I am afraid.' Unsure how to answer that statement, Harry just nodded and said a thank you.

Swiftly, Narcissa took Harry's chin in her hand and turned his head to look at her. She did it with surprising softness and elegance, automatically guiding his head in the right direction rather than pulling at it. She pulled her wand from, seemingly, out of nowhere, and started to speak some simple healing spells, articulating with utmost precision. Harry was sure he could have done it himself, even if he wasn't too experienced with Healing Spells, but he didn't mind. Narcissa Malfoy took her time to make sure the job was done neatly and thoroughly. This gave Harry time to examine her from up close. Even though her appearance was not immaculate as normal, Harry still thought her epiphany of elegance. The features on her face were soft and, while not friendly, polite. She really was a fair woman. The clothes she was wearing were unlike anything Harry had imagined a Malfoy to wear, but that might have been because she was working out in the garden. The skirt she was wearing reached just above her ankles and was light and airy, a sallow blue. Above the skirt, she was wearing a blouse that was off-white. The sleeves were rolled up, which brought Harry to notice her perfectly pale arms. She did not have the Dark Mark. It surprised Harry. He desperately wanted to ask her about it, but he felt it was inappropriate, especially with her wand so close to his face.

'It was Draco, I take?' she asked him.

'Sorry?' Harry hadn't been paying attention. What had been Draco?

'Your face, of course, Mr. Potter,' Narcissa said in an almost amused tone. 'Snape was right about your attention span, then,' she mused. Harry had really – really – wished that she hadn't said that.

'You know,' she said after examining Harry's worried face for a short while, 'I don't blame you.'

She must have noticed the surprised look on his face, because she continued: 'The Wizarding world is in a war, Mr. Potter. Your side is better off without Snape.' Harry wanted to protest, say that it didn't matter that it was better for his side - it had been morally wrong – but he kept his mouth shut. Although Mrs. Malfoy missed the obvious air of authority around her, Harry felt that, much like Professor McGonagall, she was not someone to go against.

'When Draco heard my dear aunt, he let his emotions take a run with him, I imagine. He is horribly upset – how can he not be? You must understand that. I hope you haven't done him too much damage.' Mrs. Malfoy's voice was benevolent, friendly even, as she was talking about her son.

'I haven't, Mrs. Malfoy. I didn't hit back,' Harry said. As he said it, he felt both proud and shameful. Shameful, because he had just stood there and let himself be punched, too flabbergasted to do anything about it. Proud, because he felt Draco had had every right to want to punch him, and for once he had not launched himself at the boy like some sort of animal.

'Although, I guess, my face was harder than he'd expected – I think he might have broken his hand when punching me.'

Narcissa Malfoy smiled. 'I suppose he is still walking around with it. Merlin knows his Healing Spells aren't nearly as good as his Healing Potions.'


	4. Chapter Three

Three days had gone by without much notice. Any time of day, Order members buzzed in and out of the house, checking in for business or just checking in to see how Harry was doing. After diner, Harry was shooed out of the kitchen, where meetings were held well into the night.

The second night the clock had struck eleven when Arthur Weasley fled the discussion and joined Harry in the drawing room. Harry had been reading a book on the Dark Arts noncommittally – fully aware he was not going to find anything useful in it, but with lack of better things to do. Mr. Weasley settled himself in the armchair next to Harry's, who put the book down. Harry could not say that he cared much for conversation at the moment, but felt he could not send Arthur away either. They engaged in a brief conversation in which Harry tried wriggle information out of Mr. Weasley about the Order meetings – he was practically of age, what was their problem? – and in which Arthur requested Harry to send an owl to the Burrow – everyone was anxious to hear from him. Then, Harry eagerly accepted the invitation to a game of Wizard's chess, and very few words were exchanged after that. Harry thought Ron was better than his father, but he still lost regardless.

The night after, it was Kingsley Shacklebolt that wanted Harry's attention. The 'incident' had been discussed within in the Ministry, and it had been decided not to prosecute Harry. It had not yet crossed his mind what legal consequences his actions might have, but if he had thought about it, he would have been fairly sure Azkaban would be the most likely option.

'But, how's that possible? I cast an Unforgivable. I thought they were… well, unforgivable.'

Shacklebolt laughed darkly.

'Harry, surely, you understand that these are not normal circumstances? This is a war, my boy. You're fighting on the Ministry's side now. In fact,' the man said, 'Dumbledore thought you are our only hope. The Wizarding Community can't afford to have you behind bars, silly boy,' and with that, he turned around and headed straight back into the meeting, leaving Harry bewildered.

Now it was Wednesday afternoon and the weather seemed to have made a 180-turn since Harry's arrival a few days ago. Outside, the sky was grey. Standing in front of the bedroom window, looking out, there was an unusual amount of draught for June, Harry thought. The mopish and grim weather seemed to reflect on Harry's state of mind, disabling him to turn away from the depressing view and do something useful.

The past few days had crept by slowly, too slowly. He had spent most of his time browsing through his schoolbooks, in search for useful spells, but found hardly any new ones that could spark some interest within him. Then there were some books Hermione had borrowed from the library – Harry wondered idly if she knew that they were most likely never to be returned – on the subject of Dark Arts, but none of them seemed to be dark enough to be useful in his quest for Horcruxes. All in all, Harry's attempts to make some sort of progress had been pathetically futile.

An owl almost crashed into the window Harry was staring out of, and Harry jumped up slightly in surprise. Quickly, he opened the window and took the envelope from the animal. A cold wind got in and Harry hurried to get the owl back outside, shoving in the window shut.

Harry opened the envelope and started to read the neat handwriting that was Hermione's.

i'_Hi,_

_Sorry for not contacting you before, we've been horribly busy. McGonagall gave us the locket you had on you after returning with Dumbledore. We wanted to return it as soon as possible, but then we had a look at it. I think it is a distinct possibility that it's not the locket you were looking for. We found a note in it, I put it in the envelope as well. You should read it._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

_P.S. For the love of things, owl Ginny. We're all at the Burrow and she's growing more anxious by the day. It really is disconcerting to see. /i'_

He had read both the letter and the note several times. Slowly, a dark feeling of sadness and anger crept over him, as he realized that the whole journey and Dumbledore's consequent death had been for naught. For his own comfort, he chose to ignore the postscript for now, even if the feeling of guilt in his gut had started to grow a little bit.

Getting a piece of parchment, he wrote down the only words he could think of right now.

'i_WHAT?!_

_Love,_

_Harry/i'_

Fetching Hedwig from the room on the third floor that she had been put in by McGonagall, he tied the piece of parchment to his owl, before sending her off.

He needed tea - badly.

As he walked down the stairs, Harry could feel the eyes of the bloody elves prick in his back as usual. When he turned around to stare right back at him, their faces seemed to look different. Their empty stares seemed to have changed into malevolent grins. Of course, he knew he was imagining things. Dead house-elves could not possibly be smug about things going all wrong for him.

Entering the kitchen, Harry noticed a figure he had neither hoped nor expected to see. Malfoy was standing at the kitchen counter, slicing pieces of cake. He didn't acknowledge Harry's presence, and Harry didn't mind. So far, Harry hadn't seen an awful lot of the git. Most of the times he simply disappeared into the cellar, doing stuff Harry was only slightly curious about. On the table, a cup with steaming hot tea was standing. Malfoy must have had the same idea, he thought. Scanning the kitchen counter, he saw the teapot. He headed straight for his goal.

'Want a slice?' Draco asked quasi-casually. Surprised, Harry looked sideward. Malfoy gestured at the cake. Harry nodded.

Draco cut a third slice of cake, put two on a plate. Handing one over to Harry, he disappeared with the other plate. Confused, Harry wondered where he could have gone. Fighting curiosity, Harry sat down at the table, flicking through some magazine. It was a Muggle magazine with too little pictures and lots of lengthy articles about all the topics Harry was not up to date with. He had no idea how it had got there. Flicking through it, he found little of interest. Economics, politics. Finally he settled on some article about symmetry in art – another subject that he didn't care for, but at least he could understand it.

After a short while, Malfoy came back without the plate, took the last piece of cake himself and settled next to Harry. The last to Harry's slight frustration.

'We need to talk, Potter,' Malfoy half sneered. Harry raised his eyebrow. He had not expected that the bugger wished to have a conversation.

'I already told you I'm not leaving the bedroom, it's my bedroom. Heck, it's my bloody house.' The last Harry only realized right now, but he thought it made a pretty strong point.

'I'm not going to argue about where you wish to sleep. You already made it very clear you're not leaving, I'm not going there again. However, don't think you can scare me away either,' Malfoy positively scowled at him. If looks could kill…

Draco fumbled in the pocket of his trousers. Harry thought they looked slightly odd on him, never having seen the boy in anything but robes, but he could not be bothered to make a fuss out of it. As he was thinking about the blond's curious fashion statement, a flask was held in front of him. He thought he recognized the substance in it, but he couldn't be sure.

Before Harry could open his mind to ask questions, Malfoy thrust it in his hand, pulling his arm away as quickly as possible as though very glad to be rid of it.

'It's Dumbledore's memories. He asked me to give it to you,' Draco stated. Harry blinked in confusion.

'You had to give to me? Have you seen the memory?' Harry asked, eager to learn the content of the memory. The first thing that came to mind was that maybe Dumbledore knew where to look for the next Horcrux. Maybe all hope was not lost.

'No,' Malfoy said briskly, almost offended at the mere suggestion of it. 'It's for your eyes only. But you can't see it either,' he said cryptically.

'It's for me to see but I am not allowed to see it?'

'Not yet. Only when – what was it he said? – only i"_when Lord…"/i_ You-Know-Who i"_stops sending the snake forth to do his bidding"/i_ you can look at. You must not look at it earlier.' The look on Malfoy's face was dead serious.

'Why can't I look at it?'

Harry wondered if he was playing a trick on him. Why of all people would i_Malfoy_/i be asked to do anything for Dumbledore? Did the arrogant pureblood think it funny to make him believe that he had some valuable information in hand that would help him out right when he needed it, just to discover, when that point was finally there, that it had all been a big practical joke. Malfoy would enjoy that, he thought.

'I don't bloody know why,' Malfoy let out in an irritated manner. 'But you have to promise that you won't look at it. Promise it to Dumbledore. The information will be useless if you take it in now.'

Harry really, really didn't know what to think.

'Why would Dumbledore ask i_you_/i to give me this information? Why would he trust you?' Harry sneered, desperately looking for the catch in the story. It had to be there and he had to be able to figure it out one way or another.

'I am sure that he rather wouldn't have, but he didn't really have any other choice,' the Slytherin sneered back with an equal amount of venom in his voice. 'All the Order members were at Hogwarts fighting the Death Eaters,' he paused for a while, something almost like guilt flickering on his eyes for just a fraction of a second. 'Trust me, I rather would not have been the one to sit at the Headmaster's death bed. Just bloody accept the flask and keep it safe. And don't watch.'

Harry stared at the flask intrigued now. Something in Malfoy's had sounded maybe just slightly convincing. He might just keep it safe until he had figured out what to do with it. Gulping down the last of his tea, he got up from his chair and turned to leave the kitchen. Malfoy was sitting silently at the table, staring down into his cup of tea with strange determination. He left him in silence.

Just as he had opened the door, Draco sprung back to life. 'How can you be such an ill-tempered brainless idiot?'

Harry jumped at the sound of Malfoy's raised voice, turning quickly to face the boy in case he was going to attack him again. He would not let that go by unpunished again. But he was not jumped. Instead, the blond just stood, one hand gripping tightly on the back of the chair. Harry could almost see his knuckles be drained from all blood. The look on Malfoy's face was murderous, as if he was still debating whether to jump the Chosen One after all.

With the door open, the raised voice had been enough to wake Mrs. Black. Not being able to deal with two raving purebloods at the same time, Harry slammed the door shut and tried to cast a wandless _iSilencio_/i, but didn't quite succeed. It wasn't as loud anymore, but the sound now came in as if through a badly tuned radio, with a lot of noise.

'How could you so carelessly kill someone without thinking? Why are you so insanely stupid?' It almost came out desperate, and Harry felt something snap in his guts and a wave of guilt was released. Regardless, his mind automatically went into defensive mode.

'Snape was a bloody traitor,' Harry snarled, having taken a few long strides to get close enough to Draco to intimidate. 'He deserved what he got.'

'Snape never was on i_His_/i side. Dumbledore was dying, Snape knew. He was supposed to stay in the Dark Lord's good books,' Draco agitated, stressing the 'supposed', looking reproachfully at Harry. He didn't seem to be intimidated by Harry's closeness one bit. 'Dumbledore would be dead and nothing would stop You-Know-Who from taking over the school. Snape was to protect the students. He was to help iyou/i, you fool,' he barked into Harry's face.

'You're a liar, just like Snape. Dumbledore never should have taken you.' Harry deeply hoped his words would hurt Draco, even though he knew it was probably futile – Draco never seemed to have cared much for the Headmaster's opinion, so why would he start now? But he did seem wounded, and it pleased Harry tremendously.

'Dumbledore was the one who fucking told me.'

It didn't make sense. None of it did.

'Why would he? If no one's supposed to know about it. Why would he trust you?' Harry demanded to know. It didn't make sense. He had to find out why it didn't make sense.

'Maybe because he thought of Snape as my… mentor,' he drew the word out as if it was dirty and he ought not use it. 'Did it ever fucking occur to you that Dumbledore might have thought it nice for me to know the truth about Snape? And I'm practically locked up here. Yeah, I can tell the Order members, but why would they believe me? They've all been looking for reasons to hate him from the moment he joined them. And even if I could contact the Death Eaters, what would I have to gain from _ithat/i_?'

Harry had to admit that it might just make a little – or an awful lot of – sense. He could feel his trying-to-be-intimidating figure slouching, and took a step back from the Slytherin, not wanting to look him in the eye. When he did look up at Malfoy's face, his eyes were transfixed on some spot on the floor, and all the hostility and energy seemed to have drained from it.

God, he was an awful person, Harry thought. He realized he had to get away from the scene. Awkward about what to do – announce his departure, apologize before departing? – he finally just turned and headed for the door again.

When Harry did open the door, he was greeted by an ill-humored Mrs. Black. Instantly, she turned her attention on him. A waterfall of curses and insults hit him. He didn't register them properly, instead having his attention fixed on the hard cruel eyes that seemed intent on killing him just by looking.

'Well, good afternoon, Mrs. Black. I am awfully sorry we have interrupted your quiet,' Draco said, having stepped in front of Harry, positioning himself between the portrait and the Gryffindor. One hand reached back, pushing Harry softly. It wasn't a violent action meant to hurt him but a message, Harry knew at once. He gladly took the cue and went back inside the kitchen. He got another cup of tea and sat down by the kitchen table once again.

Undoing the Silencing Charm, he listened with interest to the polite chatter Malfoy had engaged Mrs. Black in. After apologizing several times more, she seemed to have calmed down a little bit, and the two of them engaged in a conversation in which Harry's name was mentioned an awful lot. Both parties seemed very happy to insult him. Harry started to become increasingly impatient, and he considered just walking past the two of them as though nothing was happening, but he felt that might cause yet another scene, so he waited it out.

The conversation took a lot longer than was strictly necessary, Harry thought, but Draco pulled back the curtains at long last and reentered the kitchen.

Malfoy too went to get another cup, but Harry didn't feel like staying in the same room any longer, so he got up, not caring that he hadn't finished his tea.

'Thanks,' he muttered.

Before he could escape, he had been grabbed by the wrist. Malfoy looked at him with piercing eyes.

'Seriously, leave the memory alone. Dumbledore was really serious about it. Don't watch it. Please.' The last words had Draco's mouth, and he quickly averted his eyes from Harry's, looking everywhere but at him, seemingly embarrassed by the last word. Harry thought it… curious.

Pulling his arm lightly, he requested Malfoy to let go of his arm, and his request was honored. He left the kitchen without another word and crept up the stairs as silently as he could, making his way to the bedroom.

From his trunk, Harry picked a sock that had its twin missing and used it to wrap the flask in. He then took a sweater and wrapped that around the sock, before hiding it somewhere deep inside his trunk.

In the drawing room he pulled out a book that he had started reading in the day before. Harry didn't generally take to reading much, and the books he was carrying with him himself were therefore of practical use rather than for entertainment. He had now, however, found himself in a position with surprisingly little to do and surprisingly large amount of time on his hands. Out of sheer desperation he had taken to reading from the Black's collection of books. The first two books he had started to read in, he had put away before he had even got through the first three of four chapters. Both books had been casually laced with careless acts of brutality and violence towards both Muggles and Muggle-borns, leaving Harry in no doubt about the author's feelings about blood purity. He didn't think the author of the book he was reading at the moment was going to be any better, but so far no innocent people had found a cruel and unnecessary death, and even if they had, Harry didn't think he was going to find anything more pleasant.

When he had first started reading it, the book had seemed rather interesting to Harry, but as he opened the book and looked at the pages, he could not concentrate. The words were swimming on the paper in front of him while he could feel his heart pound in his throat. The conversation with Draco played over and over in his mind. Each time he thought about it, he started to believe a little bit more in the value of the memory – and started to feel a little bit more guilty about Snape, but he tried vehemently to push that feeling aside.

He had to write Hermione about this. She would know what to do with the current developments, Harry thought. Sadly, Hedwig had not yet returned. Idly, he wondered if Draco had an owl that he would be kind enough to lend to Harry. It didn't really matter, asking Malfoy for a favor struck Harry as a foolish idea.

It wasn't until Narcissa Malfoy entered the drawing room that Harry could disentangle himself from the thoughts about the memory and contacting Hermione. She greeted him politely. Harry could not help himself.

Five minutes later he was scribbling sloppily on a piece of parchment.

'i_Dear Hermione,_

_Dumbledore left me a memory. It is supposed to contain valuable information, I'm guessing to help defeat the Dark Lord. Thing is, I'm not allowed to watch it yet. Only when 'he no longer sends Nagini to do his biddings'. No idea what this is all supposed to mean. _

_Love,_

_Harry/i'_

Dinner that evening was a lively happening with a handful of members of the Order staying over. The table had been magically enlarged, leaving almost no space to walk around the kitchen. Molly served two entire roasted chickens with mashed potatoes and veggies, which was met with much enthusiasm. Accidentally having skipped lunch, Harry's stomach growled and roared at the sight of it. He helped himself to a plate quickly and dug right into his meal, forgetting all about his conversation with Shacklebolt about his time as an in-the-field Auror.

At the very end of the table, blocking the door to the garden, were sitting both Malfoys. Two pair of eyes were extremely focused on the plates before them, being careful not to make eye contact with anyone, should they think it an incentive to start a conversation. The eyes only looked up every so often to meet each other's. When that happened a few words were exchanged in subdued voices, after which both looked down again. Mrs. Malfoy managed to look surprisingly graceful, even polite, in her self-exclaimed exile from the rest of the group. Draco on the other hand, Harry thought, had discomfort written all over his face. He sat upright, his back straight, and still Harry thought he looked small and pathetic.

When dinner was over everyone got ready for the usual meetings. Harry offered Molly to help with the dishes. It was more out of hope to be able to stay in the kitchen unnoticed during the meeting than out of pure politeness, but Molly was onto him. Disappointed, he made his way out of the kitchen. Before he got up the stairs however, he heard his name called out.

Professor McGonagall was standing at the bottom of the stairway, wearing her 'we need to talk'-face. Feeling something between curiosity and apprehension, Harry turned on his heels and made his way back down again.

'Mr. Potter, good to see you,' she said pleasantly yet formally. 'We need to speak about your summer plans, I'm afraid.'

_iSummer plans?/i _Harry thought. This couldn't be good.

'Professor Dumbledore's funeral will be in two days, at Hogwarts. You can of course attend. The funeral will also announce the end of the school year. Afterwards, you will have to go… home.' McGonagall seemed hesitant about using the words, and she was very right to be, Harry thought. 'We have contacted your family, and they will be there to pick you up as usual.'

Harry inwardly groaned. Of course, it had been self-evident that he had to go back to the Dursleys, but it simply hadn't caught his attention yet. The news that he was going back to Privet Drive in two days struck like a dull blow to his stomach and it made him slightly sick.

'I'm sorry, Harry,' his Transfiguration professor said sincerely. 'You know there's no other option.' He couldn't find any polite words, so instead he just nodded. His rational side knew it would be pointless to be rude to McGonagall. _iDon't shoot the messenger_/i, he thought to himself.

'I'll make preparations,' he said at last. McGonagall gave him a curt nod, then turned to join the meeting in the kitchen.

It was far too early to go to bed, Harry thought as he saw the clock. Only really old and really young people went to bed at nine thirty, but the book he had been reading failed to spark his interest any longer, and he really didn't know what else to do anymore, besides to sleep. When he thought about it, Privet Drive was not much worse than this place. Still, he would rather spend his days in the Wizarding community, staying up to date with the latest developments.

The only thing that had seemed to lift his spirit that evening was the return of Hedwig, but even that had proven to be a disappointment.

_'Hi,_

_I know, right. Now, don't you dare send any more owls to me - or Ron – before you have owled Ginny. You cannot ignore her, Harry. I will not stand for it. She's making life living hell for us._

_Hermione'_

He had an owl to his disposition again, so technically he could write Ginny a letter, but really, what was there to say? _iHey, love, bored out of my mind. Sharing a bedroom with sodding Malfoy, other than that nothing interesting going on. Can't say I particularly miss you, although I must confess my morning wood is getting increasingly persistent. /i_ No. Just, no. He was going to write her, just… not today. And anyway, she was going to have to get used to it. Surely she can't expect an owl every other day when he's out Horcrux-hunting?

In the end he just put the thought aside and decided to go to bed.

After having taken a too long shower so as not to be in bed before ten and having brushed his teeth, he left the bathroom. Malfoy was sitting on his bed, studying what seemed to be an advanced potions book. Harry wondered if they moron still had hope that he was going back to Hogwarts next to year to take his N.E.W.T.S, but decided to keep the peace by not asking. Getting in his pajamas, Harry constantly felt like being watched. Of course, whenever he looked at Malfoy, his eyes were transfixed on the book.

'Why are you staring at me?' Mafloy asked the moment Harry had got into his pajama pants.

'I'm not,' Harry retorted briskly, and got into bed.

It didn't surprise Harry one bit that he couldn't get to sleep. Malfoy had been polite enough to center the light to just his book, but it was still too light for Harry to sleep, especially when he was not really tired to begin with. Initially he had hoped that his roommate would go to sleep soon too, but his hopes had been in vain.

For the first time, Harry seriously considered giving in and moving to another room. He could move his stuff the next morning. But the stubbornness that was inherent to him simply didn't allow it. It was his bloody room and if anyone should leave, it was Draco. That having said, he had not been bothered by the Slytherin too much until now. Unlike the first night Harry had arrived, Malfoy was usually in bed and asleep by the time he made his way to their - i_his/i_ - bedroom. Getting into bed without waking him up was not a difficult talk, and the sound of steady breathing in the background actually helped Harry fall asleep with much more ease than usual, making it possible for him to disallow any thoughts about death or war or killings.

Shifting uncomfortably, pretending to be asleep while of course wide awake, he set his hopes yet again on the lights switching off and Draco's breath easing into the calm and steady usual pattern. Then, maybe, Harry could get some sleep too.

His wish was granted at last. When the lights had gone off and the sound of Draco trying comfortable had subdues, he turned his head, as subtly as possible, in a one-eighty angle to look at the blonde in the dark. He had his eyes closed, lying on his back. This was not a position he had seen the young man in before, but he didn't think too much of it.

Turning to face the wall again, he shut his eyes again and tried to block out all and any thought. It didn't really work – his mind provided him with unhelpful images of Ginny pouting at the Burrow's kitchen table over his neglect – until he noticed an unusual breathing pattern developing on the other side of the room. It sounded nothing like a sleeping Malfoy, nor like the studying one. It was shorter, more irregular. Then, Harry noticed another sound. The sound of fabric-on-fabric, sheets rubbing one another.

Draco sodding Malfoy was masturbating.

The idea strangely intrigued Harry. Involuntarily, he turned to lie on his other side, his eyes still closed – for now. It amazed Harry to think that the prat had the nerve to jerk off with his sworn enemy lying not two meters away from him. Of course, Harry had been surprised by hard-ons at night as well, but he had done his utmost best to will them away, promising his body to take care of business in the shower the next morning.

No longer able to fight curiosity, he opened his eyes slightly. He could see the slight bulge in the blanket moving up and down rhythmically, slowly picking up speed as Malfoy's breathing became more unhinged. Shorter, more irregular. Draco's mouth hung slightly open and in the dark the shadows deformed his face wonderfully.

Against Harry's will, he could feel his own erection start to grow. He tried to will it away, but it was of no use.

He could see how the unoccupied hand of Malfoy made its way up his chest, settling there. Harry could envision Draco playing with his nipple. He could practically feel all of his blood rush from his brain to his nether regions and only barely managed to suppress a gasp of himself. Of course this tumult in his body was caused by the idea of how good it would feel to do that to himself right now, not by the sheer erotica of what he was witnessing.

The dirty Slytherin's hand moved faster and faster, and Harry could see Malfoy arching into his own touch. Obviously on the edge of orgasm, he had to bite down on his lip to stifle any sound coming out of him. But failed, just a little. Harry tried very hard not to think how it might have very well been the most amazing sound he had ever heard. With a few more long hard strokes, Draco came into his own hand under the cover. He lay still, out of breath, and opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Harry shut his immediately.

Listening to Malfoy scrambling for his wand and muttering a quiet cleansing spell, Harry focused on willing his erection away.


	5. Chapter Four

i_ 'Hi Gin,_

_I'm sorry I haven't written to you sooner, I really should have. Hopefully, you haven't worried about me too much, you really needn't. I swear, I'm safer with the Order than gold is with goblins. Sadly, it's extremely boring being stuffed away. It's late now and I should go to sleep. I trust you are attending Dumbledore's funeral tomorrow, so I will see you then._

_Love,_

_Harry/i_

Harry knew it was a lie. He was not very sorry to not have written her earlier and it was not late at night, it was early in the morning – downstairs, the kitchen was already full with life. There was no way the message would reach her before the Weasley family headed for Hogwarts, where Dumbledore's funeral would be held. Hedwig didn't usually take longer than strictly necessary to deliver letters, so it might raise a little suspicion - but then, even the best owl failed sometimes, didn't they? Harry would just have to lie his way out of it if Ginny asked why he hadn't been writing her.

He tied the piece of parchment to Hedwig's leg and set her free out from the window. The room in which she and the other owls had been kept was the same room where Sirius had kept Buckbeak for two years. Thinking about it, it made him miss his godfather like he hadn't in a while. Strangely enough, thinking about the loss of Sirius on the day of the funeral, made Harry feel like he was betraying Dumbledore, so he tried to shake the thought from his mind.

At the breakfast table, the atmosphere was tense. Although it was still very early, the kitchen table was not quite empty. Both Malfoys were present, Narcissa reading the Daily Prophet while Draco flicked without much interest through a Muggle morning paper. Furthermore there was Mad-Eye Moody, a witch Harry only vaguely recognized, and Lupin. Although not extremely busy, none of the guests present were very talkative, and Harry in turn could not be bothered to make an attempt at small talk.

Having been the last to join breakfast, he was also the last to finish breakfast. The French toast that had been served to him had been slightly burned but tasty nonetheless. Carelessly, he threw the dish in the sink, like he had since the day he had first arrived. Nobody had called him out for it yet, and the sink was always empty when he returned, so he assumed somebody had taken it on them to do magically do the dishes for him, rather than have him laboring away.

Taking a look at the clock, he wondered why he had gotten up so early. The funeral wasn't held until three in the afternoon; a Portkey would take them to Hogwarts at 2:32. It wasn't even nine yet, and Harry had no idea how to kill the time until then. i_Of course,/i_ Harry thought, _ithat's how it is most days./i _Still, it wasn't quite the same as usual. Being bored in anticipation of a funeral didn't seem quite appropriate, but neither did any activities he could think of doing until then. He could invite Malfoy for a game of wizard chess, but while Harry was sure Dumbledore would have loved a little inter-house bonding, it could quite easily turn into a fight and he didn't think Dumbledore would have approved of that.

Mindlessly, he wandered up the stairs, not even noticing the creepy heads glaring at him anymore, and headed straight into the room where Dumbledore had lay in state. Now, when he entered the room he found it empty. Of course, he had been there the day before when several member of the Order had come to prepare and take his body back to Hogwarts, Dumbledore's final resting place, but walking in there without thinking about it, he had still expected the body to be there. Over the past few days that he had spent inside the grim old house, he had visited the Headmaster's body a few times. Two or three times out of desperate longing to be with the old wizard, other times out of a desire for solitude, and a couple of times out of lack for anything better to do. Today, the latter was the case.

Harry sat himself down in the elegant though old-fashioned arm chair and took a good at the room. Although it plenty of furniture and had been ornately decorated in a style that fitted the self-perceived grandness of the Black family, the room seemed to Harry completely empty without the presence of the body.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed it when the door opened. It was only when he heard a light cough that he was pulled back to the reality of the present. In the doorway stood the tall and slender figure of Narcissa Malfoy. Her eyes connected with Harry, and the fact that she had caught his attention at last seemed to encourage her to walk forward, into the room, to where Harry was sitting. She put her hand on his shoulder, settling herself on the arm of the chair. She was a bit too close for comfort, Harry felt.

'Are you alright, Mr. Potter?' the woman asked quietly. Harry nodded faintly, not looking her in the eye, fully aware that he wasn't and that Narcissa knew.

'This must be hard on you. I know it is on Draco,' she spoke, flashing the mess in front of her a faint smile.

'You will be. Be alright, I mean.' Harry couldn't help but look curiously at the strange witch. He was completely bewildered as to why she would seek him out to console him in these times of hardship, but her eyes looked at him with a kindness that seemed genuine. However, he doubted whether he statement was true. He had no idea what to do, how he was ever going to win this war. It felt as if he was lost at sea and Snape had thrown his compass off the fucking Astronomy Tower.

'I really believe so.' She smiled at him, obviously having sensed his disbelief. 'Forgive me if I am crossing the line by saying this, but I honestly think you can do this without Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Potter. In the end, this was not his war to fight. He served as your regent while you were a child, and he did a god job, but now it's up to you.' She stopped for a second, as if to check Harry's reaction before she continued.

'You have grown into an extraordinary wizard, Mr. Potter.'

Harry felt like crying. He couldn't possibly fill the shoes that everyone constantly fitted for him. Why didn't people understand just how impossible his job was? He was never going to live to destroy all Horcruxes and defeat Voldemort. To realize that even a Death Eater's wife seemed to have full faith in his abilities to defeat the most powerful dark wizard of all time – it was too much.

'I can't. It's impossible. He's too powerful.' Harry sighed, burying his face in his hands. The hand on his shoulder tightened its grip.

'Yes, the Dark Lord is extremely powerful,' Mrs. Malfoy said carefully. She sounded a bit sour, having to admit it. 'But he is also a madman, my dear boy. He is too blind to see half of the things going on around him.'

Harry couldn't answer her. He wasn't one bit convinced, but he couldn't go against her either.

'Are you attending the funeral, Mrs. Malfoy?' he asked instead.

She shook her head.

'I don't think that would be desirable.'

'But he took you here, he saved you from Voldemort's claws,' Harry protested. He couldn't understand how anyone could pass up the chance to pay their last respect to the greatest wizard of the century.

'Yes, he did,' Mrs. Malfoy said harshly as she stood up, removing her hand from Harry's shoulder. In less than a second, her face had lost all its softness and had become a perfect blank mask. 'And for that, we are eternally grateful, Mr. Potter. However, our family wasn't all that intimate with the headmaster, and I don't think now is the best time to make public appearances.'

Harry felt himself become small as she glared him dead in the eye. He had almost thought she would hex him, when her features softened somewhat again.

'Good luck this afternoon, Mr. Potter,' Narcissa said, touching Harry's shoulder briefly one more time, before she turned around. She had left the room before Harry could mutter a thanks.

Trying to tame his hair in the bathroom mirror, Harry's mind returned to the question what he was to wear. He should have asked Mrs. Malfoy when he had the chance, but of course, he had forgotten. And now he was lost. He had never been to a funeral before, Muggle or wizard. Sirius had just vanished, leaving nothing to bury. He had not even attended Cedric's funeral, although looking back, he could not think of any good reason for his absence. Other than those two, he hadn't really lost anyone since his parents – although he did vaguely wonder whether Snape had been buried yet and where.

Having given up on taming his hair when Draco entered, making it clear that he would like to use the room, Harry walked back to his bedroom. He opened the trunk and set about solving his problem for dress code. There were his school robes, of course, but he didn't think they were quite formal enough. It was a funeral, after all. Then he had his dress robes, but he wasn't quite sure whether those were appropriate for the occasion. It was a funeral, after all. Not some happy dance ball. Dress robes would probably be too fancy, too formal. He didn't even have to think about whether Muggle clothes were an option. Firstly, because he didn't think they would be accepted – although he was sure Dumbledore would not have minded it. Secondly, because his collection of Muggle clothes still largely consisted of worn-out trash handed down from Dudley. It seemed that everything he owned was either too formal or too informal.

Still holding up his school robes against his dress robes, sometimes picking up a random set of other robes, but also discarding those, Harry barely noticed that Draco had walked in. The moment he did noticed it and saw his face, however, he knew the look in his eyes meant war. For a moment he expected another punch, but that didn't happen. Instead, he was pushed back roughly. He collided with the door, the knob jabbing painfully in lower back. Draco instantly closed the distance he'd created by shoving Harry against the door.

Harry felt trapped. Although he probably could have overpowered Draco with some effort, at the moment, he felt as if he had absolutely nowhere to go to. Malfoy's nostrils flared, obviously getting himself worked up, enjoying the position of dominance he was in. Putting his hands on Harry's shoulders, pushing him painfully hard into the door.

'You enjoyed watching me last night, didn't you?' Draco sneered, the corner of his mouth curling up in both amusement and contempt.

Harry didn't answer. He was completely shocked that Malfoy had noticed. He had noticed, and just continued. i_The audacity!/i_ he thought. He saw the blond again; the bulge under the sheets and shadows on his face. The thought that he'd been lying there, knowing full-well Harry was watching him, putting on a show… It was interesting.

'Didn't you?' Malfoy whispered against his ear, having closed much of the distance between them – mouth close enough for Harry to feel his breath tickle on his skin. Malfoy pushed his thigh firmly against Harry, creating friction right i_there/i_. It took Harry everything he had for him to only just stifle a soft moan.

Malevolently, the Slytherin grinned as he undoubtedly could feel the sensation in Harry's groin. He added a just a little more friction.

'Enjoy sneakily watching others touch themselves, do you?'

Harry wanted to object, to say that it was hardly his fault that he saw Malfoy when he had just started jerking off right in front of him. He wanted to defend himself, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. He could hear his breath go shallow and he could feel his erection grow – and it was so fucking humiliating – but Malfoy's thigh against his groin and the feel of his breath on Harry's neck was too much to stop.

'You little pervert. Horny now, are we?' i_Maybe a little,/i_ Harry thought, but didn't say. Instead, he just looked at the ground, trying not to make embarrassing sounds at Malfoy's thigh rubbing against him. But silence didn't seem the desired answer.

Roughly, Malfoy took his chin and pulled Harry's face to look at him. The eye contact caused the devilish boy to grin in a curious manner. Suddenly, Harry felt Malfoy's other hand, tugging at his right nipple through the fabric of his shirt. There was nothing he could do against the sigh that he let out at the touch. Shutting his eyes, he savored the electricity that seemed to buzz through his body with each tug. A sharp pain, however, caused his eyes to fly open again, staring straight into the eyes of the apparently unsatisfied Malfoy. It was shocking how completely devoid of feelings the greyness in front of him seemed. Not even the slightest flicker of lust could be traced in them. The idea that Harry was standing here, completely at Draco's mercy and the idea that the fucker wasn't even turned on by him, made him feel small and completely without dignity.

'Are we?' He spoke the words slowly, dragging the two syllables out.

Harry nodded.

Another mean pinch to his nipple made him wince. Nodding was not good enough. When it did, the word came out with difficulty, Harry's voice hoarse and raspy.

Upon hearing the Golden Boy's answer, Malfoy reached for the zipper of Harry's jeans, opening them up and roughly tearing it down to his knees. If he'd try to walk, he'd stumble, Harry knew. All thoughts of walking away disappeared, however, when a hand resolutely was stuck in his boxers, the palm gripping around Harry's hardness.

The moan that came out of his mouth was embarrassingly loud, and the second the hand started moving he knew he was completely lost, all dignity out of the window. He was in too deep and all he wanted now was for this to happen.

Suddenly the touch of just Draco's hand on his cock wasn't enough. He missed the closeness of earlier on – needed desperately to touch Draco back. His hands reached for Draco, feeling briefly the abs that he'd seen when the other boy had been changing. But before his hands could trail towards his chest, they were roughly grabbed and with force pushed against the door, up above Harry's head. Harry moaned.

'Don't fucking touch me with those dirty hands,' Malfoy stated rudely.

Not sure how serious he was about it, Harry tried to pull his hands away, but his arms were pressed hard against the wood. He was not sure whether to be offended, humiliated or to be even more turned on. His prick seemed to have chosen the latter, throbbing harder than ever. Thinking straight seemed impossible and the words that were coming out of him were incoherent and not much more than jibberish, earning him a contemptuous laugh.

It had been too long since someone else had been touching him. Harry could hear Draco hissing utterly degrading words at him – 'such a good whore,' 'vile little slut' – but he couldn't care as long as he kept being touched. The way Malfoy's hand was still sliding up and down his prick, now slick with precome, made him feel so i_fucking/i_ good.

The bastard made sure to make no physical contact whatsoever, except for the hands that were fisting Harry's dick and pinning him effectively against the door. The contrast between his prick that was so incredibly engulfed by Malfoy and the rest of his body that was so painfully untouched was simply excruciating.

'Tell me what a pretty little whore you are,' breathed Draco right next to his ear – being sure not to touch.

Listening to himself speaking, feeling the dirty words roll off his tongue, he exploded, coming all over Malfoy's hand.

Immediately, Malfoy let go and took a step back. Harry's arms fell limp beside him and he watched the blond bewildered. The look on his face was one of utter contempt. He wiped his cum-covered hand on Harry's shirt.

'You disgust me, Potter,' he sneered, before opening the door that Harry was still leaning against, causing the messy haired boy to stumble over a step or two before regaining his balance, and left.

For a minute or so Harry just stood where Malfoy had left him, all confused and still glowing from his orgasm. Slowly regaining his senses, he took a look at himself and thought about what had just happened. As he looked at the stain of cum on his shirt, a tidal wave of humiliation hit him. He sank to the floor, leaning against the door. He felt like dying.


End file.
